Inside Out
by MildredandBobbin
Summary: John is spending far too much time in the shower. Sherlock decides to find him a girlfriend.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Inside out

**Author**: Mildredandbobbin

**Rating:** M for constant sexual references and adult themes

**Disclaimer:** This incarnation of Sherlock Holmes is owned by the BBC etc. The few original characters are mine but really hardly worth mentioning.

**Spoilers:** everything up to end series 2.

**Warnings:** messing about with gender roles

**Pairing:** John/Sherlock, Lestrade/Mycroft (if you squint)

**Summary:** John is spending far too much time in the shower. Sherlock decides he needs to find John a girlfriend.

**Author's Note:** Ok, I'm a bit worried about this one, is it crack, is it well, ooc? Should it be M rated? Anyway, I'm nearly done and am happier with certain scenes so I'm going to post the first installment. Feedback loved and adored :P Title from an awesome Eve 6 song that could be john/sherlock as far as I'm concerned.

* * *

**Inside out**

Part One

Oh this was no good. Sherlock frowned as he realised John's shower had gone into its sixth minute. This was the third one of _those_ showers this week and it was only Tuesday. John normally took 4.5 to 5.25 minutes in the shower. Except when he was masturbating and then he took 7.5 to 9.8 minutes.

Sherlock normally wouldn't even allocate any brain power for the topic, it was John's choice if he wanted to waste water resources in such a pointless fashion, but Sherlock had begun to notice a concerning pattern. Firstly, John had not had a date for well over five months and he hadn't had an actual girlfriend since that Mary woman he'd been seeing while Sherlock had been away, well over a year ago now. Secondly, this constant masturbation; it wasn't just the shower, Sherlock could identify at least four times in the past week when John had manually satisfied himself in his bedroom – his bedroom was directly above Sherlock's after all and it wasn't so much as what Sherlock heard as what he didn't that tipped him off, he'd hear the normal routine of John going to sleep, the click of the laptop, footsteps, light switch, then normally the thump and squeak as John twisted around and made himself comfortable for sleep, on _those_ nights John lay unnaturally still, probably trying to be quiet so Sherlock wouldn't know what he was doing, and then after 8.2-10.3 minutes he'd get out of bed again, turn on the light, go to the bathroom, and then resume normal nocturnal activity. Thirdly, John was becoming increasingly moody and taciturn. Fourthly, the pornography, Sherlock could hardly use John's computer anymore, it was so full of viruses from the websites he'd been frequenting lately. One look at the browser history made Sherlock wonder if he'd stumbled into an alternate reality where the letter x was an essential part of any sentence. It was becoming appallingly obvious to anyone who cared to pay attention, and Sherlock did care, that John had a serious problem. He was obviously sexually frustrated and it was leading to an unhealthy reliance on internet pornography. Research had shown the detrimental effect pornography had on brain chemistry. John had always made an effort to look after Sherlock's health, well it was time he returned the favour.

"John," he said, when John emerged from the shower, clad in his dressing gown and towelling his hair dry. "You need to have sex."

John stopped drying his hair and looked at him, blinking. "Excuse me?"

"Sex, with a woman."

"Yeah well I've been saying it for…how long have we known each other? Four and a half years now and you've only just decided to listen."

"No I'm serious John. You are in danger of permanently affecting your neural pathways!"

"My - " John took a deep breath. "Ok, I'll bite, what are you talking about Sherlock?"

"You're obviously sexually frustrated, all this compulsive masturbation – and you're developing an unhealthy addiction to pornography, which science has shown is related to a decrease in oxytocin, an increase of opioids-"

John blushed. "All right, yes, I've read that article, thank you." He glared at Sherlock, which seemed hardly warranted, given that Sherlock was trying to help. "Sherlock, I'm hardly addicted and what I do in the privacy of my own room –"

"And the shower," muttered Sherlock darkly.

"How – nevermind- either way, it's none of your business!" John turned on his heel, he paused at the edge of the door. "And it's not compulsive!"

"John! We need to talk about this!" Sherlock called after him. The only response was the slam of John's bedroom door.

* * *

John fumed as he got dressed. Just because Sherlock Bloody Holmes was asexual didn't mean _he_ had to be a monk. And it was Sherlock's fault anyway that he hadn't had a date that lead to anything more than a mumbled apology as he raced off in response to one of Sherlock's text messages. Something always came up. He'd stopped bothering, to be honest, it was too much effort just to get a date if he was going to end up cancelling it anyway.

There was a firm knock on the door.

"Go away Sherlock." He felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment again. Did Sherlock really know all the times he'd been having a wank?

"You're not masturbating now so I don't see why."

"Because you are a nosy git with no sense of common-"

The door opened and Sherlock stood there looking as if he had an important experiment to run.

John sighed. There was no use fighting. "What then?"

"We're going out. To a pub. I'm going to help you get a sexual partner."

"Sherlock! I don't – " He rubbed his eyes, feeling a little overwhelmed. He started again. "I don't need you to find me a girlfriend. I am quite happy with my life."

Sherlock looked at him sternly. "John. The first step is admitting you have a problem. Trust me, I've overcome a number of addictions. It's all a matter of retraining your brain."

John folded his arms in front of him. He was actually engaging in this bizarre conversation. Did this make him some sort of enabler? "So what, this is an intervention to get me laid?"

"You need normal, regular sex again with plenty of affection and kissing, and -" Sherlock waved his hand airily "-that sort of thing."

"Right. Well, actually Sherlock I'm going out tonight anyway. Having a drink with Greg and Mike. You're welcome to join us." He snagged his jacket from the chair.

"Oh. You didn't tell me." Sherlock looked a little hurt.

"I did actually, last week, when Greg texted me. Boys night out. You said you had better things to do."

"Exactly, making sure you get yourself a nice, sexually permissive woman to take you home tonight."

He was really serious. Of course he was. It was Sherlock. John sighed but couldn't help smiling to himself. "Fine, fine, who am I to turn down a socially awkward wing man."

"What's a wing man?"

"Never mind," said John as he walked out the bedroom door.

"Wait – you're not wearing that!"

"What's wrong with this?" John said indignantly.

"What's right with it?"

Sherlock marched into John's room, threw open the wardrobe and rummaged through his clothes. "No. None of these will do."

He looked John up and down. "Maybe one of mine…"

"Sherlock, I am not wearing one of your skin tight – no. Besides it would be really skin tight on me. I'm not changing." He gestured at his clothes. "These are fine."

Sherlock didn't look convinced and studied John dubiously. "Lose the jumper."

"No, I'll be cold."

"Do you want to be warm or having sex?"

"Sherlock!"

"Fine, fine. Let's go then, but don't blame me if they aren't into cuddly."

* * *

Dull. What did all these people see in this past time? Sitting around a crowded, noisy, unpleasant smelling bar, nursing a weak tasting ale and attempting to hear what other people were saying? And the women? Well, Sherlock was despairing of finding someone both attractive enough to appeal to John, sober enough to give him a satisfactory time and promiscuous enough to be willing to go home with a perfect stranger, even if it was someone as harmless and pleasant looking as John.

John meanwhile was being no help whatsoever. He, Lestrade and Stamford were sitting there peering at the flat screen tv watching some sort of football match. They were all on their third beer. If John wasn't careful he'd be rendered unable to perform.

Sherlock noticed a new group of young women walk in. Obviously post-work drinks, office workers, probably an accounting firm, maybe something like paper distribution. He considered the five women. Alcoholic, no. Sexually prudish, no. Not John's type. Married and not interested in an extra-marital affair, not that John would. He studied the last one, blonde, not too tall, physical dimensions attractive to John, pretty but not too pretty, John would find her appealing but not intimidating, early-thirties, some reasonable job like a receptionist, no ring, looking around, scanning the room. Sherlock glanced at John and decided to make a move.

* * *

"Oh god," said John, suddenly realising that Sherlock had moved from where he'd been lounging against the wall behind him and was now infiltrating a group of girls who were obviously on a night out.

"What?" asked Greg and saw where John was looking. "What's he up to now?"

"He's trying to find me a girlfriend." Sherlock being concerned about his sex life was beyond worrying. John decided to treat it like eyeballs in the microwave and just ignore it and hope Sherlock would find something else to do shortly.

Lestrade looked at him in surprise. "What? I thought you two were…you know…an item?"

John had taken a sip of beer and nearly sprayed the lot across the table. He coughed. "No. No we're not." Why did Greg think that? Since when?

"But you left your girlfriend and moved back in with him when he came back from- you know." Oh, since then.

"Yes, yes I did," he said. And that was true but it wasn't like that. He'd just realised Mary wasn't right for him, that he'd only gone out with her because she was the polar opposite of Sherlock when he needed to try to move on. But then Sherlock came back and he hadn't needed to move on after all, once he'd forgiven the great idiot for faking his own death..

"But you're not-" Greg still looked surprised.

"Nope." Nope and nope. Firstly, John was still straight, even if no one else thought he was, and secondly, Sherlock had never displayed the slightest bit of interest in, well, anyone actually, aside from Irene Adler that one time, and that was even more reason not to think he'd want to jump John's bones. They were best friends and yeah when he thought Sherlock was dead, there were things he'd wished he'd told him, but now they didn't seem appropriate, but one day he might mention it, if he was drunk enough. All the same. Nope.

"Oh, huh."

John frowned at Greg. "You know I'm not gay."

"No, no, course not. Me either."

John looked at Greg curiously. "Never said you were."

"Hm, what was that Mike?" said Lestrade turning towards Mike Stamford.

Mike tore his gaze away from the telly. "What? Nothing."

"Oh, thought you said something."

John looked back at where Sherlock was chatting to one of the girls. She was pretty, he'd give Sherlock that. But what really had his attention was Sherlock. Sherlock did not look like Sherlock. Sherlock looked like an amiable guy, maybe someone who worked in the City, out with some friends, chatting up a pretty girl. He was leaning back slightly, smiling and laughing at what the girl was saying. Every now and then he'd glance over at John and nod in his direction, as if talking about him. John frowned when he caught Sherlock's eye but instead of stopping, Sherlock shot him a firm look and then returned to talking to the girl. After another minute or so he looked over at John and waved him over. John shook his head and Sherlock said something to the girl who laughed and slapped him playfully on the arm. Sherlock grinned at her, rolled his eyes and then bounded over to where John was sitting. "Come on! She thinks you're sweet! Sweet!"

"Sherlock! What are you doing? What did you tell her?"

"The truth. You're a doctor, broke up with your girlfriend recently, bit hesitant about meeting someone new, I'm trying to get you back in the saddle so to speak. Now, come on, Becky's waiting."

"Becky?" John grinned. "She is pretty."

"You like her?" Sherlock's face lit up. "I knew you would. She's your type."

"I don't have a type."

"Of course you do, and she is it."

Greg was looking at John expectantly. He grinned at Sherlock. "Hey Sherlock, you reckon you could set me up with someone?" he asked with a wink.

Sherlock ignored him. "John?"

"Yeah, ok, but don't blame me if this goes badly."

"With an attitude like that, no wonder you have trouble getting women on your own," said Sherlock, swirling away and returning to the table of women, suddenly Not Sherlock again.

John picked up his glass and followed. John gave Becky an embarrassed smile when he reached her table. "Hi, I'm John," he said.

"Hi, Becky," Becky said with a friendly smile.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked.

"Sure, scotch and dry."

"I'll get it," said Not Sherlock with a friendly smile. "You stay here and talk to Becky."

John widened his eyes at Sherlock who gave him a glare and disappeared towards the bar.

"So, Sherlock has been telling me loads about you."

"All bad, I hope," said John with a smile.

"Hardly. So you're really a war hero? And a doctor?"

"Oh he didn't…"

"'Fraid so. Now you'll have to live up to your amazing reputation."

"Hah. And he's told me nothing about you so at least we'll have something interesting to talk about."

Becky giggled. With something speculative in her gaze she looked over to where Sherlock was standing at the bar. "So your friend is hot. What's the go? Girlfriend? Single?"

John looked from her then back to Sherlock. Ah right. Of course. For a moment John considered leaving Sherlock to deal with the ramifications of flirting shamelessly with a nice girl but decided the prat would probably just say something rude and walk off and it wasn't Becky's fault. "Gay," said John instead.

"Oh." Becky's face dropped, then she brightened. "All the good ones are right?"

* * *

Sherlock returned to the girl's table to find John gone and Becky giving him a disappointed look as he handed her the drink. Honestly! He left John alone for five seconds with that girl and he managed to mess it up.

"John?" he asked when he got to where John was now chatting with Lestrade and Stamford.

"Sherlock, you dick, she fancied you!"

"Me? No, she said you were sweet."

"Sweet, yes, well you are hot, so whose pants do you think she wanted to get into?"

"You've got an in there mate," said Lestrade. "Should go back."

Sherlock frowned at him. "Why would I want to have sex with her?"

"No reason, no reason at all," said John.

Lestrade laughed. "Bloody typical, of course it's Sherlock who pulls a bird, he doesn't even want one."

Sherlock flopped down on a chair. "I don't understand. Why would she want to have sex with me?"

"Oh, I don't know, you're tall, good looking and are wearing that bloody tight shirt. No idea why."

Sherlock studied John. John thought he was good looking. Well. That was…nice. Yes. Still, his friend seemed downcast and his sexual frustration had not been resolved.

"Forget this place. Tomorrow we're going shopping and buying you something presentable to wear, and then tomorrow night we're going somewhere decent. A club."

"Clubbing?" said Stamford. "Haven't been clubbing in years."

"Me neither," Lestrade. He smirked. "Mind if I join you?"

"Yes," said Sherlock at the same time as John, said, "No, that would be great!"

Sherlock glared at them both. "Fine. Just don't cramp John's style."

Lestrade gave him an amused look, which Sherlock found a little irritating.

**tbc**


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

John took himself off to bed as soon as they got home. He'd tried to ignore Sherlock and his matchmaking attempts and just enjoy being out having a beer and a laugh with some mates but the fact that _Sherlock_ felt he needed assistance in his love life was bothering him. Was he really that sad and pathetic, was his sexual frustration really that obvious? He was happy with his life. He loved the buzz and thrill of helping Sherlock solve cases, he enjoyed the medical work he actually managed to do, he liked spending his evenings curled up in front of the telly listening to Sherlock either puttering around with an experiment, playing his violin or hurling abuse at the television. He liked the companionable relationship they had, closer now even since re-establishing it after Sherlock's absence of nearly a year. They'd become used to each other's habits, were brutally honest with each other (case in point, Sherlock feeling perfectly free to comment on his lack of sex), shared everything (with or without permission) and genuinely enjoyed each other's company (mostly). Adding a girlfriend into that mix seemed more and more difficult. He'd tried, after Mary, to find an easy going attachment, someone who wouldn't mind if he cancelled at the last minute, didn't demand too much of his time or attention but unless he was willing to be the 'other man' it didn't seem possible. Sometimes it seemed like it would be just easier if he was gay and could just be with Sherlock completely. He snorted at this thought, Sherlock still wouldn't shag him, probably. Sherlock just didn't seem to feel these urges, didn't have the need for physical contact. So yeah, he was feeling frustrated but he didn't think becoming one of Sherlock's cases was going to help, it just made his lack of sex feel more obvious.

He sighed. Well, at least he was getting Sherlock to come with him on a few nights out. That was a bonus. He chuckled at the memory of Sherlock not understanding Becky's attraction. Had he really not understood that he could have got off with her? He thought of the act Sherlock had been playing, the charming flirt, so good looking with his suit and tight shirt, that face of his, flirting so successfully – it was probably a good thing for women everywhere that Sherlock didn't actually use his ability to pull chicks. It amazed John that Sherlock could pretend to be so charming, yet choose not to even sugar coat most of his interactions with other human beings. In a way it was nice to know that the Sherlock who was currently sulking on the couch downstairs was the genuine one.

Once in bed John's hand automatically slid down under the sheets but then he froze at the thought that maybe Sherlock would know. How could he possibly- he'd been right about the shower though. Curiously, he felt a frisson of anticipation at the thought that Sherlock would know exactly what he was doing. No. Really? He let his hand slide into his pyjama pants. No. No. He quickly drew it out again, shut his eyes firmly and told himself to go to sleep. That night he had a sex dream about wanking with Sherlock in the room. The next morning he saw to things in the shower almost defiantly and came out, glaring at Sherlock, daring him to say something.

Sherlock said nothing but he did give John a pointed look. Which John ignored.

As promised, John was dragged around all the fashionable stores and dressed up like Sherlock's personal Ken doll. John didn't ask how he could afford the 750 pound suit or the three shirts, ties and shoes, but he did catch a glimpse of the name 'Mycroft' on the credit card Sherlock handed over and decided discretion was the better part of valour. He decided it was a 'putting up with your brother' tax that Mycroft owed him.

That night, John was given strict orders on what to wear and Sherlock even did something weird with John's hair so it was all in sections and looked like he was trying to be in a boy band. Admittedly he did look a bit younger.

First they went out to dinner at Angelo's before taking a cab to one of the most fashionable clubs John had ever seen.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock," said Greg, joining them outside. Mike Stamford hadn't been allowed out by his wife so wasn't with him. Greg looked like he'd come straight from work, wearing his normal suit. "This place is a bit fancy for the likes of us, isn't it?"

"We are all successful professional men, Detective Inspector," said Sherlock. "It will suit us perfectly."

Greg looked John up and down and grinned. "Nice threads, so he did take you shopping then?"

John held out the corners of his jacket, looking down at himself. "S'pose it's not too bad, feel like a bit of Mini Me though." He grinned and jerked his head in the direction of Sherlock.

"Nah, you look fine. Here, how we going to get into this place?"

Sherlock walked straight past the queue up to the bouncer, spoke three words and they were being ushered inside.

"I did some work for the owner once," he explained.

It was a _nice _club. The music made John feel old and everyone inside looked at least fifteen years younger than him and painfully fashionable. They stood gaping for a few minutes before Sherlock grabbed a booth and waved over the waiter and ordered them all drinks.

John started to chat to Greg while Sherlock sat back in the booth, scanning the room. After about five minutes he got to his feet and disappeared into the crowd. John and Greg exchanged glances and John suddenly felt rather nervous.

Suddenly Sherlock reappeared, he had two women with him and he was laughing and flirting with them. How was that fair, that Sherlock Holmes, who couldn't manage a conversation normally without insulting someone, was able to put on a good enough act to successfully flirt with two hot women? The women were in their late twenties or early thirties and were dressed fashionably and expensively with an edge of style and seriousness about them that made John think they must be professionals of some sort, lawyers or in finance.

"Miranda, Kate, this is John, oh and Lestr- Greg," said Sherlock.

John and Greg slid over in the booth and Sherlock and the two women joined them. Sherlock waved down the waitress to order some drinks, then sat back silently, performance over.

It turned out John was right, both women worked in law, which gave Greg an easy ice breaker. In fact, one of them had even heard of him. The women were smart and funny and were obviously relieved to find a doctor and policeman to talk to. John found himself enjoying chatting away to them. Soon, they'd all had a few too many drinks and one of the girls, the blonde, Kate, was dragging John up for a dance.

"Oh god, I haven't done that in ages, I'm complete rubbish, I'm warning you," he said.

Kate laughed and wouldn't take no for an answer, dragging him to the dance floor. He _was_ rubbish but it made Kate laugh and they mucked around doing ironically bad dance moves from when they were teenagers before something slow came on and John decided it was worth a try. He smiled at Kate and pulled her towards him for a dance. She smiled back and John pulled her in closer, ostensibly in an ironic tango move, which worked because it segued smoothly into a close slow dance. It was nice, having a beautiful woman pressed against him, moving slowly with him. He glanced across the room to where Sherlock was sitting, hoping he was noticing how well things were going. Sherlock was watching him, idly toying with the edge of his glass but his eyes were narrowed and his dark brows were drawn into a slight frown. Something in Sherlock's expression sent a tingle down John's spine and he quickly looked away, back to Kate.

* * *

Sherlock watched John dancing with one of the women he'd found. He knew he should be pleased that, so far, John seemed to have managed not to ruin things in any way and was doing well. Oddly though there was a feeling of dissatisfaction as he watched his friend dancing far too closely with the pretty blonde. He fought back a scowl as he saw the woman's hand slide down John's back to rest on his hip, on the curve of his buttock. He experienced the strangest sensation of wanting to pull her hands away, drag John away from her. This was odd. Why was he feeling so possessive? It was his idea after all and John was going along with it perfectly.

The woman slid her other hand down, so they were both now resting just below John's hips. Sherlock pursed his lips. Why did she feel the need to get so handsy? Was John even enjoying that? Couldn't she just take John off home now and do this in private, where Sherlock couldn't see. But even this theoretical concept suddenly made him feel irritable. Which was silly, since that was exactly what he wanted John to do: have sex and stop being so grumpy, stop feeling the need to hide in the shower or his bedroom and – Sherlock shifted slightly. Oh. That was odd. Since when did the thought of John _running his hand over his hard cock_, Sherlock coughed, masturbating, he amended, affect him in _that_ way. What John did with his penis was his own business. Except when it was affecting his health, obviously, then it was only right that Sherlock intervened.

That woman's hands really were getting a little too adventurous. And what was John doing with_ his_ hands? Their heads were moving closer together. He saw the woman say something to John and his ears turned pink and then he chuckled. Oh. They were kissing. Well that was good, wasn't it? A bitter taste rose up in his throat.

Sherlock glanced away quickly and his eyes fell on Lestrade who was doing his best to get his tongue down the throat of the other woman. Sherlock made a face. Well, this was tedious. John seemed to be doing well enough on his own. There was really no need to stay here and watch this display. He slipped from the booth, went to the counter to pay for their drinks with Mycroft's card and then left.

He felt irritated all the way home in the cab. He kept checking his phone, in case John had noticed he was gone and wondered why, but there were no texts.

He stomped upstairs at 221B Baker Street and slammed the door to the flat, hung up his coat and then stomped over to the lounge room and threw himself on the couch.

Well. He hoped John was having a good time and was in a better mood after all this effort.

Thinking about John having a good time with that woman made Sherlock feel rather peculiar. He couldn't quite identify the irritating feeling that left him feeling scratchy inside his skin and rather annoyed. His hand shifted down and he unzipped his fly. He slipped his hand inside his trousers. Perhaps this would help? He began to work himself, letting his mind float through a variety of interesting and stimulating topics, avoiding those particular neural pathways that included the events of this evening. It was impossible to avoid the thought of John altogether, however, as most of his neural network connected at one point or another to the synapses that constituted Doctor John Watson. In the end Sherlock gave up, thought about John masturbating in the shower and got himself off.

A mistake; the shot of dopamine had turned that train of thought into a super highway. It would take some effort to delete it…maybe later. He lay on the couch for a long moment, not really feeling better but noting that some of the tension had eased slightly.

Suddenly he heard the door downstairs open, then shut and footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock looked down at the mess on his shirt, his flaccid penis still untucked from his pants and he sprang up and dashed into his bedroom, shutting the door.

He quickly changed into his pyjamas, cleaning himself up, as he heard the door to the flat close and the unmistakeable sound of John walking into the kitchen. He paused at the awful thought that John may have decided to bring that woman home _here_ with him, but after listening for a moment, no, there was only John.

Taking a breath, he calmly opened his bedroom door and came out.

"John? Why are you back here?" he asked.

"Sherlock! I turned around and you'd left. Everything all right?"

Sherlock frowned. No. This was wrong, John shouldn't have followed him home instead of pursuing that girl, yet why did he feel pleased? "I'm perfectly fine. I just didn't see the need to stay since you and…Kate…were getting on so well. Obviously I was mistaken – do I need to hold your hand throughout the whole seduction process?"

John didn't seem contrite at all. He parked himself on the couch. "Oh, that wasn't going to work out anyway. She just wanted a dance floor snog and she was off home to her boyfriend."

"Boyfriend?" How had he missed that? Always something…

"Yeah, it was her friend who was on the prowl. She and Greg left just before us, I put Kate in a cab and then came home."

"Oh. Hmmph." Sherlock sat down next to John. "Another failure then."

"I don't mind, it was fun. We can do it again if you like."

"We'll have to try something else. Transitioning to sexual intercourse from a meeting in a bar is proving difficult."

"You're only just realising that? I've been doing this for twenty years."

Sherlock tapped his chin, deep in thought.

He heard John laugh. "No. I don't believe it."

Sherlock glanced at John and saw him looking at him strangely. "What?"

"Did you just have a wank?"

Sherlock was taken aback. How did John know? He supposed John's comment was warranted however, since he had deduced correctly.

"You did! Really Sherlock, you'd better be careful or you're going to wreak havoc with your brain maps." John was smirking.

"How-"

"You just look – glowy." John's smirk stretched into a grin.

Sherlock considered that. "Glowy. Huh." He supposed that did describe the way John looked when he came out of the bathroom after one of _those _showers; a little flushed, his lips tinged pink. John was still looking at him, a curious expression on his face that Sherlock couldn't properly identify. For a moment he was arrested, caught by that odd expression. His eyes flickered over John's face, taking in all the details. He suddenly wondered what it would be like to touch John's lips.

John looked away, coughed. "Uh…bed…I'm going to bed. Night."

Sherlock nodded. He returned to his thoughts. He would get John laid if it was the last thing he did.

* * *

**tbc**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: **Thanks for all the reviews, glad you're enjoying this! Have changed it to M rating at the advice of one of my readers. Sorry for any inconvenience.

**Part 3**

John threw his keys onto the bench as he came in the door. Work had been boring and slow. Cold season was approaching so there was sniffle after sniffle. He'd be lucky if he wasn't sick himself by tomorrow.

"Sherlock? You home?" He wandered into the lounge room and found Sherlock lounging on the couch tapping away on John's laptop.

"John. Would you say your movie tastes are mainstream or Indy?"

"Uh, mainstream probably, though I don't- wait, Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Signing you up for internet dating."

"No."

"John it's worth a try. It's the perfect solution. I'll be able to vet the respondents properly and we'll make sure we have no more misunderstandings before you meet."

"Sherlock. Enough."

"What?"

"I'm happy to go out clubbing with you, let you introduce girls to me, but I don't need you to set up an internet dating profile for me."

"Who else would do it? You? Don't be ludicrous. You'd never get a girl that way."

"Sherlock, this is getting ridiculous. You have to accept that I will get a girl when and if I choose. Ok? I'm fine." He snatched up the laptop and snapped it shut. "Enough." Ok, so he was a bit sexually frustrated lately but being pressured into finding someone to have sex with wasn't helping. It only made him more aware that he wasn't getting any. And to be honest, John was beginning to wonder if it was a girl he wanted anyway. Knowing that Sherlock wasn't completely immune to sexual feelings had started a landslide of questions in John's mind, the foremost of which was one word: maybe?

Sherlock pouted.

John gave him his best stern look. The one that he used when he was sick to death of finding toes in the kitchen sink.

"Fine! I won't set up an internet dating profile for you."

Which was ominous because that was the tone Sherlock used when he was just agreeing to make sure John didn't leave the flat.

"Right. Good." John nodded in his 'that's sorted then' way, hoping it was. "Anyway, I'm starving. Want to go out for dinner? I'll wear my suit?"

Sherlock brightened at that. "All right," he said.

"No matchmaking though, just us, having dinner." It would be nice, just him and Sherlock. He felt unexpectedly excited.

Sherlock looked at him curiously. "All right," he said again.

* * *

Sherlock watched John eating his meal. The suit did look good on him. John should wear more fitted clothing more often. He was actually slim but he looked bigger than he was under all those jumpers. Sherlock wondered briefly how they'd match up, chest to chest. John was more muscular around the shoulders, but only just. Shorter of course, so he'd have to kneel. The thought of kneeling in front of John was an oddly pleasant concept.

John looked up, frowning slightly as he caught Sherlock staring at him and Sherlock went back to his verbal dissection of the rest of the clientele, which always made John laugh. He liked John's laugh.

It was a shame John wasn't gay. Then John could just have sex with him and avoid all this work. Sherlock filed that thought away for later.

"So…hmm…" said John. He was obviously trying to decide the best way to ask something. Sherlock raised his eyebrows helpfully. "Ahem…uh…what do you think about, when you…you know, spend some quality time with Mrs Palmer and her five daughters?"

Sherlock blinked, reran the question, translated it into English from adolescent. "When I masturbate you mean?"

John turned a delightful shade of red. "Yes. Then."

Sherlock paused. He didn't think John would really want to know that the last time he'd masturbated he'd thought about him tossing off. No. That would be the kind of awkwardness John hated. He might even leave the restaurant. "That's highly personal John, you of all people should know that."

"No, not specifically, I just mean, men, women, the periodic table?"

"Oh." He could answer that. "Sometimes the periodic table. Sometimes men."

"Oh. Men?" John was doing his best to keep his expression neutral.

"Problem?"

"Oh, no, no." John looked down, focusing on his meal. "I was just, curious, you never seemed to need – I mean I always thought you were asexual, and then well, the other night, since you," he coughed, "wank like the rest of us, I was just wondering if you had a sexual preference. That's all."

"Am I gay?"

"Yes." John looked up, straight at Sherlock.

"I suppose, if I had to label my sexual identity, I suppose gay would be appropriate."

"Oh. Well…thanks, for telling me that, I mean. Sharing." John seemed genuinely touched. Sherlock offered him a smile.

"That's perfectly all right."

"And you know, I don't have a problem, obviously."

"Obviously."

"Uh. How's your steak?"

"Fine. It's all fine," said Sherlock, mimicking John's words from years ago, that first night at Angelo's when John had fished around about Sherlock's sexuality then too, and Sherlock had told him he'd been married to his work. It had been true, but it didn't mean he didn't have a _preference_. He supposed, if he had to be more specific, his preference would include a stout heart, blonde-grey hair, an adorable grin and shortness. If he had to be specific.

John looked up at him again and realisation dawned at the words Sherlock had just used. He began to grin. "Ah yes, it is that too. Can't believe you remember that."

"Of course I remember. It was one of the most important nights of my life. First time someone killed a cabbie for me."

"First time?"

"So far."

And John laughed. "God, not something I want to make a habit of."

"Yes well, I can't encourage serial killing, John, you know that," said Sherlock, smiling at his friend.

And they both sniggered into their meals.

* * *

John was relieved when they had a call from Greg Lestrade a few days later about a case he needed Sherlock's help on. He still didn't trust Sherlock to give up the idea of online dating so he'd been taking his laptop to work with him. A case was exactly what he needed to give Sherlock something else to think about. John could do with something else to think about as well. He kept coming back to the discovery that a) Sherlock was interested in sex and b) Sherlock liked men and c) Sherlock had never once expressed any interest in him, sexually. Not that he minded. It would be awkward. But still, he'd always thought Sherlock wasn't interested in sex full stop, not that he wasn't interested in sex with _him_.

It was an interesting case, a woman had been found murdered in an expensive house in Kensington, except no one knew who she was. John watched with his usual admiration as Sherlock analysed the crime scene. He knew Sherlock was showing off, mainly for his benefit he suspected, but he still couldn't help grinning when his friend concluded a deductive stream of consciousness and turned to him with a look of triumph. He always got a kind of thrill of excitement looking at Sherlock at that moment. John had long ago decided that his real role in Sherlock's work was not as a medical examiner but to keep Sherlock company, give him plenty of positive reinforcement, ask the right stupid questions and stop him from getting himself killed trying to prove he was clever. He felt that old familiar twinge of guilt at the knowledge that he'd failed that last one once already. He hoped he never did again.

Sherlock had returned to examining the body when Sally Donovan walked into the room.

"Oh you didn't ask _him_ here, did you?" she said to Greg Lestrade.

Sherlock looked up from where he was examining the tile grout and frowned, staring at her for a long moment. Then he turned to John. And in that instant John could tell exactly what he was going to do, but there wasn't enough time to stop him.

"What about Donovan?" Sherlock asked. "She hasn't had sex with Anderson for over two months now. Must have been because his wife threatened to go to Portugal without him. Still, she's female, sexually available. Why don't you ask her?"

"_Sherlock,_" hissed John. "You don't just say that sort of thing in front of the other person!"

"Why not?" said Sherlock. "Surely it's relevant to her too?"

"Excuse me?" said Sally.

"Nothing, sorry Sally, just- nevermind," said John, feeling his cheeks burn.

"Cause it sounded a lot like Sherlock just suggested you ask me out."

John winced and tried smiling.

"Not ask you out," corrected Sherlock. "Ask you to have sex-"

"Sherlock!" yelled John.

"No offence John, but you're not my type, besides doesn't really pay to make psychopathic boyfriends jealous does it?"

"And that, Sherlock, is why you don't say those sort of things in front of the other person," said John.

"Actually they're not together," Greg said in a quieter voice, leaning into Sally. "John told me the other night."

"Huh," said Sally looking at them both. "Could have fooled me."

"All right!" said John standing up. "Are we done yet Sherlock?"

"No, will be a while longer, there's some curious mould growing here and I need to get some scrapings."

John sighed and went to lean against the wall with Greg and Sally.

"So how'd you go Saturday night?" he asked Greg.

Greg coughed and cast a quick glance at Sally. "Good. Yeah. Nice girl. Might give her a call some time. You?"

"Nah, she had a boyfriend."

"Ah. Shame. " He grinned. "Bet Sherlock was upset, all that trouble he went to and you still haven't pulled yet."

Sally looked at them both, confused. "Hang on a minute, are you seriously telling me Sherlock is trying to set you up with someone?"

"Uh yes, yes he is," said John.

"You two are so weird. Just shag each other already and be done with it."

"I'm not actually gay, you know," said John. He was so used to correcting that mistaken impression that the words came out on auto pilot now, he didn't even notice he was saying them until they were out of his mouth.

"And he's not actually God, but you don't see that stopping him."

John grinned, he had to pay that one. "All the same. Not gay." And there were those words again. Now suddenly they sounded over defensive, even to his ears. Was that why Sherlock had never expressed any interest in him?

Sally shrugged. "I have impeccable gaydar," she said.

Greg looked at her sharply. "Really?"

"Yeah." She narrowed her eyes.

"Oh," said Greg, looking away. "Oi, what's Grimes up to now. Honestly-" and he strode off to yell at some unsuspecting officer.

Sally laughed. "You know he's got a fancy man, someone in the government. Tries to keep it quiet but we all know about it."

"Greg? No," said John, shaking his head. He couldn't imagine it. Actually, he tilted his head sideways and watched the Detective Inspector walk away…maybe…if he squinted. Why hadn't Sherlock picked up on that? Or maybe he did but didn't find it relevant to anything.

Sally shrugged. "So, just so you know, if you asked me, not your psycho boyfriend, but you and I'd had a few sauv blancs, I'd probably say yes. You're nice enough."

"Uh, thanks. I think."

"It was a compliment." Sally rolled her eyes. "And oh, looks like he's finally finished. Have fun you crazy kids."

And she strode off after Greg.

"John, we have to interview the ironing lady."

"She's downstairs still I think."

"Good. Judging by the evidence I'd say she's approximately thirty-three and single, would you like me to ask her out for you?"

"Sherlock!"

"No?"

"No."

"Not the time?"

"Just. No. I'm not picking up at a crime scene."

"Oh." Sherlock made the face he made when he thought John's scruples were odd. Then he frowned. "If I didn't know better John, I would suspect you didn't actually want to have sex."

John just raised his eyebrows. "Are we solving this case or not?"

**tbc**


	4. Chapter 4

**Warnings listed in description apply in this chapter (don't go back and look if you don't want to be spoiled).**

**Part 4**

It was evening, Sherlock's favourite time of the day when he wasn't solving a mystery. It was the time when John was home from work and hanging around downstairs, either typing on his laptop or watching tv, occasionally talking, sometimes dozing on the couch. Sherlock just liked knowing he was there, that he could have his attention at any time.

Tonight Sherlock was plucking at his violin, thinking about things, John mainly. John was watching television.

"Sherlock, Top Gear's on, would you mind giving the violin a rest for a bit?" John asked from the couch.

Sherlock looked up, surprised. John didn't ask to be able to hear the television often so he was happy to oblige when he actually did. He put the violin down.

"Come watch with me," said John, patting the space next to him.

John didn't ask that all the time either, so Sherlock was happy to oblige here too. He flopped down next to John and leant his head on his shoulder. He heard John chuckle lightly and rest his head back against Sherlock's.

"Do I like this show?" Sherlock asked. He usually didn't bother storing information about tv, he just checked with John.

"You don't mind it. You find it useful to learn about new makes of car."

Ah. That was where he got the car information from. No need to keep the source.

"And before you ask, that's Jeremy Clarkson, and last week you agreed to stop deducing the presenters every time we watched."

"I did?" He ran through his 'John' file, which contained everything that John had ever done and skipped to this time last week. Sure enough there was a memory of John saying, 'No! I don't want to hear it! Stop deducing the presenters, just watch the bloody show!', he always looked so endearing when he was irate. "Oh, so I did."

"God, you really do delete things don't you."

"Of course."

"Good thing you've got me then," said John.

Sherlock felt happiness welling inside his chest. "Yes, I would be lost," he murmured and patted John on the leg, just above the knee.

He heard an odd sound from John, that sounded a bit like an "oh" but was slightly rougher. John cleared his throat. "Quiet now. Tv. Watching." But he closed his hand over Sherlock's and kept them both there, on his thigh. Sherlock made a happy noise in his throat.

He thought again that it was a shame John wouldn't just have sex with him. It would all be perfect then, no need for problematic third parties. But John had made it very clear that he only liked women. Sherlock frowned, an idea forming. Of course, it was obvious. He let the noise and images of the television wash through him as he formulated his plan.

* * *

It was late and John was tired. He'd had a shocking day at work, screaming children, nattering old ladies, badgering old men, two other doctor's sick, running behind by an hour. Finally the day was over but then there was a problem with the tube and he had to take the bus home and now it was late and he was hungry and just wanted to sit down in front of the telly and not talk or think for a while. When he walked into the lounge room however, he stopped. There was a woman sitting in the armchair. She was tall and blonde. Long stocking covered legs were crossed neatly at the knee and she was wearing low heels and a demure black dress. She wore a pair of square framed glasses over her slightly angular brown eyes. She had pouty red lips. John blinked. She was, quite frankly, hot.

"Oh," said John. "I'm sorry, is…is Sherlock around?" Surely…surely Sherlock hadn't gone ahead and advertised for a girlfriend on the internet?

She smiled slightly and shook her head. John stopped. She looked oddly familiar….he frowned and looked closer. With those cheekbones and that mouth she looked like she could be Sherlock's sister…if Sherlock had a sister…John ran through all the woman's features again. No…

"_Sherlock?"_

The woman quirked a smile, a smile John had seen before. She sucked in her full bottom lip and raised an eyebrow with the barest smirk. "That's Sherry, sexy." The voice was breathy but…oh bloody hell, familiar.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John's throat felt dry.

The woman, who must be Sherlock, it was Sherlock, wasn't it, stood up. John swallowed hard. She was tall, as tall as Sherlock. It must be Sherlock. But why? The _person_ sashayed over and stopped, directly in front of John and put their hands on John's shoulders. He frowned looking up into eyes that were the wrong colour but a face that, despite the makeup, was entirely familiar.

"Sherlock…stop this," he breathed. There was something…sexy…about Sherlock dressed like this, something that spoke to an unacknowledged longing.

"Sherry," said Sherlock firmly. And with a fluid motion, he sunk to his knees in front of John, hands sliding down John's shirt to rest at his hips. Sherlock looked up and parted his lips slightly, a pink tongue flicking out to lick slightly at his bottom lip. He reached for John's belt. Oh... John's brain finally engaged and he grasped Sherlock's hands and stepped back quickly, tugging to pull him up.

Sherlock stood but looked put out and put his hands on his dress clad hips. He sighed. "John, it's not going to work if you don't play along. Admittedly I didn't think you'd recognise me so quickly-"

"Sherlock! You- I don't know where to begin."

"You need to have sex, you're straight, I couldn't get you a female sexual partner, this," he gestured to himself, "is the obvious solution."

"You…you are offering to pretend to be a girl for me?" It was oddly…interesting, but so, so left field. John had the familiar sensation of needing to take his brain out and not try to apply normal human thinking to Sherlock. "Don't you think I would have, um…noticed."

"I was only going to perform fellatio."

"Oh," said John and he felt as if he was under water. "Only."

"So?"

And for the briefest of moments, as John looked at Sherlock with his fake bust and blonde wig, brown contacts, glasses, looking actually quite pretty, he considered it. He could just go with it. Then he shook himself and paced away, running his hand over his face distractedly. "No. Sherlock, no! This is all kinds of messed up."

Sherlock frowned and took off his glasses and wig. He rubbed at his scalp, fluffing out his hair. John swallowed, the sight of Sherlock in makeup and a dress with his dark curly hair, looking like a local production of The Rocky Horror Picture Show caused a frisson of something illicit inside him. It was strangely more appealing than when he looked more feminine. John took a deep breath. No.

"Sherlock, I'm leaving now. For my own sanity. Please…just please be yourself when I get back?"

He made the mistake of glancing back as he went out the door. Sherlock had unzipped his dress and shrugged out of it. John looked back just in time to see it slither to the floor. He caught a glimpse of Sherlock wearing a lacy black bodysuit, the bust padded, the knickers high cut with a suspender belt holding up the black stockings. It was confusingly sexy. He quickly shut the door and ran down the stairs, heart pounding, the image of Sherlock looking like Frank-N-Furter burned into his brain.

* * *

Well. Another failure. Sherlock changed into his pyjamas and washed the make-up off his face. And now John seemed upset. Was it a sexuality thing? Was that the problem? And for a moment he had thought it would work, John had exhibited all the signs of sexual arousal. What had been surprising had been his own response; anticipation, he'd felt almost eager. Interesting. That same, dissatisfied, feeling of irritation was back.

He decided to give up on the project. It was causing too many disconcerting side-effects. He would just have to monitor John's internet usage and make sure he got plenty of fresh air and exercise. Some interesting cases would take his mind off not having enough sex. Sherlock would pester Lestrade again tomorrow.

He pulled on his dressing gown and went out into the kitchen to do some work.

**tbc**

**AN: **If you are interested in a really dodgy impression of what Sherlock might have looked like (head shot only) you can check out my attempt at some digital manipulation on my live journal, user name: mildred_bobbin. I wanted to see if what I imagined would work.

Probably one chapter left, we are coming to the climax, so to speak :P


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: **Last part, sorry for the delay on this chapter, I had finished but then wrote a smutty follow up, so I've been writing sex and that's my excuse. Thanks for all the lovely reviews, favourites and alerts. Hope you enjoyed the ride. Reviews and feedback adored!

**Part 5**

John walked down the street to the Tibetan place and ordered a take away. Then he sat and thought while he waited.

Sherlock had offered to suck him off while dressed as a woman. Sherlock. John pinched himself again, just to make sure this wasn't some weird psychosexual dream. No.

Oh God. What if Sherlock had actually been coming out to him, as a cross dresser, or even, transgender? And he'd been completely unsympathetic, only thinking about how uncomfortable it was for him? What kind of friend did that? He didn't think that was the case, but what if he was wrong? He didn't even know Sherlock had sexual needs until a few days ago.

The thing was, he actually believed Sherlock was just following the natural progression of his 'get John laid' train of thought. He could take this pretty badly, if he wanted, the idea that his gay friend dressed up as a woman to trick his straight friend into having sex, but he knew that wasn't how Sherlock's mind worked. If Sherlock had actually wanted, consciously, to have sex, he would have just said. John smirked to himself, he could just imagine it. "John, meet me in my bedroom in 15 minutes, I want to have intercourse with you."

But he hadn't. So did that mean that Sherlock _didn't _ want to have sex with him? But he wouldn't have offered if he'd been against the idea, in theory.

Which left the most salient question, how did he, John, feel about having sex with Sherlock? It wasn't an unwelcome thought. After all, they were more a couple than anyone John had dated in a long time: they lived together, ate together, had joint bank accounts, spent most of their spare time together, enjoyed each other's company. Sometimes they even, literally, slept together when one or both of them would pass out on the sofa while they were watching telly, and of course those few times they'd ended up having to share a bed while on a case. If they did start having sex then it would just seal the whole arrangement. On the other hand it could totally fuck things up.

John's number was called and he collected his take away and walked home slowly. He still had no idea what he was going to do or say when he got in the door.

Sherlock was calmly looking through a microscope at the kitchen table when John walked in the door. He was dressed in his pyjamas and dressing gown and if John hadn't seen him in drag with his own eyes he'd have never believed it. For a minute he was tempted to just start the evening over again.

"Got a curry, want some?" he asked.

"No. Not hungry," said Sherlock, not looking up from whatever experiment he was working on.

John nodded and set down the food. "Just so I know I'm not going mad, you were just propositioning me in dress, weren't you?"

"Yes, another failed attempt at getting you laid."

"Ah. Thought so." He opened the cupboards, looking for a clean plate.

"I've decided to give up on that project," said Sherlock. "You'll just have to sort out your own sexual partners."

"I've been thinking about that," said John, keeping his tone light, not sure where he was going with this. "Was wondering if you were interested." Oh and it had come out of his mouth. He turned around to look at Sherlock, feeling incredibly nervous. "You can wear a dress if you need, or not. I don't mind."

Sherlock looked up from the microscope, frowning. "Me?" he said. "You're asking me to have sex with you?"

John folded his arms in front of his chest. "Yes, that's what I was asking."

"Oh." And the puzzled look on Sherlock's face changed then into something bright. "I would, yes," said Sherlock, a light flush across his cheeks, his voice hopeful.

John nodded and swallowed. "Great. Fine. Some time then?"

Sherlock nodded. He hesitated a moment. "Now?"

John licked his lips. Now? "Yes, all right. Now."

"Unless you wanted to have your curry first?" asked Sherlock.

"No, curry can wait."

"Uh…sofa? Bed?"

"Bed. Bed's good."

"Yours maybe? It's probably neater and you would have the necessary prophylactics and so on."

John nodded. "Right, well, let's do it then, I mean, let's go then." His hands were sweating.

Sherlock stood up and walked around to John looking at him intently. He stopped a few inches away and John swallowed, his heart was pounding. Sherlock reached out, tipping up John's chin and then very carefully kissed his lips. A slow brush, a firm but brief pressure, and then it was over. It felt…perfect.

"Oh," said John as Sherlock pulled back, studying his reaction. "That was…that was good."

"Yes," said Sherlock. "Again?"

John reached up and pressed his mouth to Sherlock's, harder this time, firmer. He felt Sherlock's lips part under his and he deepened the kiss. A small sound escaped from his throat. This. At last.

Sherlock broke contact, his breath ragged, nose still touching John's. "I must warn you, I've never done this before."

John let out a hoarse laugh. "You and me both." He brushed a kiss against Sherlock's lips again. "I just want to kiss you. Is that ok? Can I just kiss you?"

Sherlock's lips dragged back along his. "Yes," he said in a choked voice. "Please." And he leant down again to kiss him. Sherlock's legs seemed to buckle and he pulled John down with him as he sank to his knees. They knelt on the floor together, Sherlock holding John's face firmly in two hands while he kissed him thoroughly, explored his mouth completely with his lips and teeth and tongue.

John pulled back finally. "Sofa, getting a crick in my neck." He got to his feet unsteadily, pulling Sherlock with him across the room until they fell onto the couch.

* * *

Sherlock couldn't get enough of John's kisses. Couldn't get enough of his lips and his sighs and the small whimpers that came when he nipped his bottom lip just so. This kissing, in itself, was heaven, but better yet was the building desire he could feel unfurling in his loins, urging him onto John, against him through the thin fabric of his pyjamas, rubbing up against the thigh that parted his legs as John rose above him, kissing his mouth, holding him with his strong army doctor hands. John's hands pushed up under his pyjama shirt, grabbed at his hair, reached for his arse and his thigh. He could feel John's hard on pressing against his side, occasional thrusts showing that John was just as aroused by this too.

"God, I want you, Sherlock, want you bad. Please, can I?" he heard John beg against his throat.

He couldn't find the words so he reached between then, grasping John's belt, pulling and tugging until it was undone, unzipping his fly and then pushing John back until he was sitting and Sherlock could free his erection. He heard John gasp and, emboldened, pushed John back with one hand while he held him with the other and began to explore him with his mouth. He knew the theory, he'd done some research on fellating before he'd attempted to seduce John earlier. Applying these techniques in real life however, with his own desire focusing his mind on that single need and John's gasps and swears and whimpers sending extra data to overload his synapses proved more difficult. In the end he focused on John's responses to stimuli and decided to wing it.

* * *

John was pinned back on the couch by Sherlock's hand firm on his chest and his arm heavy across his thigh, and he was experiencing blissful torture. He felt he was being examined, studied, and pleasured in equal measure. He bit his lip, tangled the fingers of his right hand in Sherlock's hair and hung onto the arm of the sofa with the other. Why had he never let Sherlock do this before? Idiot. So must wasted time.

"Sherlock," he gasped out, his balls tightening with the increasing pleasure. "Going, not long, fuck-" and his words devolved into a stream of cursing and adoration as his orgasm washed over him. He gasped as Sherlock continued to work him as his final shudders died away. Sherlock sat back, wiping at his mouth, his dressing gown falling around him like a cloak.

"Oh god, Sherlock," John managed to get out before pulling Sherlock up to lie on his body, to kiss his beautifully swollen lips. "Love you, idiot, I love you."

And Sherlock gasp-laughed and kissed him fiercely back and then collapsed on him, burying his face in John's neck.

"What about you?" John whispered. "Want me to go down on you?"

Sherlock shook his head from its hiding place in the crook of John's neck. He drew up and John's heart skipped to see the shy look on his flushed face. "I'm afraid I was overcome –"

And John realised he could feel dampness against his leg and he hugged Sherlock close and kissed him again. Oh this man. Oh this man.

* * *

Sherlock settled more comfortably on top of John, his head tucked under John's chin. He wrapped his arms about John's middle.

"I love you too," he said thoughtfully, after some reflection on John's recent words. "And you're the idiot."

"Me?"

"You kept saying you were straight when obviously you are not."

"I am straight. I just love you. And I want to do this with you, because I love you."

"That's very liberal minded of you John."

John laughed and Sherlock felt the rumble against his ear. He'd always wanted to know what that laugh sounded like close up.

"It's very horny of me, that's what it is," said John. "And you're the idiot because you never told me you wanted to do this too."

"Again, you kept banging on about how bloody straight you were." Sherlock felt he had a real grievance here.

And John laughed again and Sherlock reached up and touched his face and smiled when John caught his finger tips and kissed them.

"Sorry, I am the idiot," said John.

They lay there in companionable silence and Sherlock was able to start filing John moments away for later.

"Did you know Greg Lestrade's bisexual?" said John suddenly.

"Yes," said Sherlock, concentrating on the feel of John's stubble on his fingertips. "He's got some strange arrangement with my brother. I try not to think about it."

"_Mycroft?_" said John, sounding genuinely shocked. "But he- the other night with that girl?"

"Told you, don't want to think about it. It's not nice, like us."

"We're nice?"

"You are nice."

"You are nice too," said John and kissed his fingers again.

Sherlock hummed against his chest, a Bach sonata.

"That cross dressing thing, is that something you do often? It's fine if you do," John added quickly.

"No. Only once before when I had to infiltrate a strip club." Sherlock traced his fingers over John's exposed midriff in time to the music in his mind.

John paused. "Of course," he said. Then coughed. "It's not something you need to do, when you have sex, is it?"

"Hmm? No, I'm not a transvestite if that's what you're asking."

"Ah. I was worried I'd been unsupportive."

That was something John would worry about. His John, so kind and good. Sherlock lifted up so he could see John's face. Sure enough there was conscientious concern written there. "No, you weren't," he assured him.

John looked up at him and gave him a fond smile. The smile grew into a smirk. John raised an eyebrow. "You, um, could wear that black thing again, the lacy number. I wouldn't mind. You know, later, when we're used to all this."

Sherlock smirked back. "If you'd like."

John's voice went low, his eyes growing dark. "You have no idea of what I wanted to do to you when I realised it was you under that dress."

Sherlock felt a surge of want, low inside, it mixed with triumph. "You can show me," he said, watching John's expression, cataloguing it for later reference as John, aroused version four.

"I would like to," said John and he pulled Sherlock to him for a deep, slow kiss.

Sherlock sank down on John again and reached out to take John's hand, stretching their arms out and then running his fingers down the length of John's arm to his body. They were both still nearly fully clothed, John more so than him.

"And_ I_ would like to see you naked. You're wearing too many clothes." He rose up, kneeling above John and pulling at his jumper until John sat up and helped remove it.

There was a horribly loud gurgle from the region of John's stomach. They both stopped. "If you want to go another round, I'd better eat that curry first," said John. "You hungry?"

Sherlock realised he was. "I could eat, yes."

And John looked pleased, which made it all worthwhile.

* * *

John gulped down some food quickly so he could be done before Sherlock decided two bites was enough. As it was, he had a fork halfway to his mouth when Sherlock pulled him up from the table and started undressing him. John stood taking bites of naan while Sherlock worked around him, unbuttoning his shirt and tugging it off his shoulders.

"Shall we take this bed?" John asked, setting down the last bit of naan.

"Mm yes," said Sherlock, trying to concentrate on making John more naked.

And John took his hand and led him up the stairs and kissed him several times before Sherlock was able to remove every last piece of clothing.

**The End (mostly)**

**AN:** I have written an Adults Only (NC17) follow up but I think it's too raunchy for fanfiction dot net so it is only available on my livejournal (must be 18). Pop over if you're interested, mildred-bobbin dot livejournal etc etc (don't think we're allowed to link to external sites in fics). I think I might have worked out my Sherlock-in-a-dress kink now.

**Title:** Laid

**Summary:** _John coughed, looked around and then murmured discretely behind his fist. "Can Sherry come out to play?" _  
_Sherlock's gaze flickered towards him briefly. "Yes. Give me a half hour start."_


End file.
